Harry thinks of what to say in terms of lists, in branching columns and tiers. Apparently it’s good for being a cop and not for being a husband, a boyfriend, or a fiancé.
“Do I embarrass you?”
The ghost of a hundred apologies swell in his chest, squeezing the air out of his lungs as they manifest. 1. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that to your parents. 2. I’m trying so hard, I really am. 3. Do I have to move out? 4. Did you catch that bit where I said I love you and I think you're sexy? 5. I think I’m going to tear my skin off and throw myself out that window, that’s how at my limit I am…
He ploughs forward, that thing he just said was a mistake.
“No- ah, fuck. I mean, are we friends? We don’t have to be friends. I just- want to know if we are.”
He looks up at him, as earnest as the proverbial schoolboy Kim once compared him to. His leg bounces under the table.
COMPOSURE - (“Do you like me?”)
INLAND EMPIRE - (“Are you ashamed of me?”)
VOLITION - (“Am I a burden?”)
The list in Harry’s head shifts. 1. Am I just your boss that you keep around for some semblance of normalcy and can’t let go? 2. Am I just some kind of pet detective that you take for walks at work and if left alone, are left praying it won’t piss on the carpet or chew up the furniture? And so on. Twenty three nervous men in Harry’s brain holding a conference together. Voices blur, spilling over each other. Swirls of colors fill the creases of his brain. He’s getting a headache.
These choices suck. He doesn’t need to say anything else right now.
no subject
“Do I embarrass you?”
The ghost of a hundred apologies swell in his chest, squeezing the air out of his lungs as they manifest. 1. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that to your parents. 2. I’m trying so hard, I really am. 3. Do I have to move out? 4. Did you catch that bit where I said I love you and I think you're sexy? 5. I think I’m going to tear my skin off and throw myself out that window, that’s how at my limit I am…
He ploughs forward, that thing he just said was a mistake.
“No- ah, fuck. I mean, are we friends? We don’t have to be friends. I just- want to know if we are.”
He looks up at him, as earnest as the proverbial schoolboy Kim once compared him to. His leg bounces under the table.
COMPOSURE - (“Do you like me?”)
INLAND EMPIRE - (“Are you ashamed of me?”)
VOLITION - (“Am I a burden?”)
The list in Harry’s head shifts. 1. Am I just your boss that you keep around for some semblance of normalcy and can’t let go? 2. Am I just some kind of pet detective that you take for walks at work and if left alone, are left praying it won’t piss on the carpet or chew up the furniture? And so on. Twenty three nervous men in Harry’s brain holding a conference together. Voices blur, spilling over each other. Swirls of colors fill the creases of his brain. He’s getting a headache.
These choices suck. He doesn’t need to say anything else right now.